The End
by Leo et Lab
Summary: A series of conversations between England and France throughout the years when the world is "ending."


**1000 AD**

The ground is wet and cool under France's bare feet. It squelches and seeps between his toes, the mud clinging to the back of his heels. As he treads –_slish slosh slish-_ he breathes in the moist air and opens his mouth to take in more of the earthy environment among tall grasses and shrubbery.

He is bent forward just slightly and is carrying a small boy on his back. The boy clings onto France's tunic and was dressed in a white tunic and green cloak. He was barefoot as well, but his feet were callused and dirty from fleeing into the forests countless times before.

And like those countless times before, he is being carried back home by the Kingdom of France.

France doesn't seem to mind, though, even if the smaller nation has grown bigger these past years _(not human years; no, humans grow too quickly and nations grow too slowly)_. The boy's head was barely above France's hip, and now he is up to his chest. He wonders, though, if England will ever be taller than him. He hopes not.

That way, France will be able to run after the little boy into the woods, barefoot or not.

"France," England whispers. "Aren't you tired?"

The corners of the French boy's lips twitch into a smile. He hums before replying. "Not really. You're really light."

"We've been walking for a while, though." England yawns into the palm of his hand. "Is it because you're so big?"

_"Oui, mon petit lapin."_ France glances over his shoulder at England. "But you'll be as big as I am now, soon enough."

England shakes his head. "I don't think so."

_ "Non?"_

"No," England huffs. "Remember, the world is supposed to end this year!"

France sighs, sticking his bottom lip out. "I don't like thinking about that."

"Oh…" England places his chin on the top of France's head. "Sorry."

"It's fine."

The two fall silent as France trudges through the muddy English land. After several minutes, he bursts through the trees and onto a moor. Farther up, they could see a grey stone castle, where the King of England resided.

"France," England murmurs as they take a familiar path towards the castle.

"Yes?"

"If you could save someone's life- just one person –when the world is ending, who would you pick?"

"You, my little rabbit; I would pick you, of course."

**1600 AD**

"My body hurts," England mumbles to himself as he lies in the green grass. Ever since the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588, the struggles with Spain and Ireland have dragged on. It was tiring and exasperating, but he was just as eager to fight them another day.

Ireland and Spain weren't his only problems though. The taxes grew heavier and the economy was hit by poor harvests and the cost of war. Prices rose and the standard of living fell. The Catholics were suffering as well from repression.

_'At least Mary is gone,'_ England muses, his eye lids dripping as drowsiness came in the form of warm sunshine and soft grass. _'This is a new era; a much, much better one._'

His bones feel frail and heavy with loss of sleep and his muscles were tense with agitation. He felt ancient and rusty, but in physical form, he appeared to be only sixteen years of age. _'…At least for the humans.'_

"Thou shan't talkest to oneself."

England's eyes snap open and he stares up at golden locks and the upside-down, chiseled face of the Kingdom of France. Blue eyes like sapphires and a small smile mock him and England immediately sits up right. He twists his body, despite its protests, to face the Frenchman and props himself up with his left hand behind him. His other hand lies in his lap, ready to strike France, should he cross any boundaries.

"But mayhap t'is the sign of Luther's prophecy," France continues. "Mayhap man shall be driven mad 'fore Death shall taketh us our lives."

"Gong, that is, and thou knowest it," spits England, baring his teeth at the other. "Begone! Thy face is not welcomed hither."

France feigns hurt and bats a lash mournfully. "My heart! Oh, how thee wound me so," he sings. "Since whence hath mine Englishman become so sour?"

"I hath ne'er been _thine_," retorts England, jumping to his feet. "And thou art a lowly creature, deserving of nay pity. Slow of tongue and lacking of wit, begone!"

And so the Kingdom of France left.

**1999 AD**

The nations of the world were meeting to discuss the problems occurring around the globe this day in Washington, D.C. But as for now, they chatted both merrily and dismally of the world "ending." As the attendees talked among themselves, England sat alone at the meeting table.

"_Angleterre_, stop your sulking and control this meeting. I'm afraid _Amérique_ is running late- _again_."

England looks over his shoulder with a lazy turn of the head. He nods in agreement before standing up. Few paid him any attention.

"Everyone, attention please!" Arthur shouts, yet his voice doesn't rise above the noise of the countries.

"EVERYONE BE QUIET!" Germany orders at the top of his lungs. The German had always been loud and usually headed the conferences.

England gives Germany a grateful look. "Thank you, Ludwig." He then addresses the others. "Everyone, I understand that many of you are…distressed over the supposed apocalypse. But I can assure you that the world will not be ending any time soon."

A murmur of words passed through the crowd of men and woman. England clears his throat for attention.

"So please calm down and have a seat. We won't be able to discuss the present time's issues if our minds are all on something irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" An anonymous voice answers from the group. "What if the world really does end? What if we're all just going to die anyway?"

"Poland," England says loudly, as to stall the nations from launching back into their frenzied conversations, "let me repeat myself: I can _assure you_ that the world will not end. We will just move calmly through another year, as we did last year."

"I agree with Arthur!" All eyes shift from the Englishman to France, who had spoken aloud. "There is no proof anyway that the apocalypse is this year. It is just another false prediction from some idiot."

There was more murmuring to follow, but it was relaxed and the countries began to move about to their own seats. England let out a relieved sigh and took a seat. And as the last of them sat down, the doors burst open and the United States of America entered the room and the meeting began.

**2012 December 31**

England sat on the ledge of the balcony, balanced precariously on the railing. His legs dangled barefoot and felt cool in the cold air. New York City glimmered below him, awake and alive despite that night had fallen long ago. A strong wind blew and he shivers, tightening his drip on the iron rails.

"You shouldn't sit like that after drinking," a voice behind him warns.

England frowns and doesn't turn around. It is France for sure. "I didn't drink much."

"Still, you tend to be careless." France walks up beside him and leans against bars. He is carrying a glass of red wine in his right palm.

"I'm sober enough, Francis."

"Then can you answer a question for me?"

"Fire away."

"If you could save someone's life- just one person –when the world is ending, who would you pick?"

Taken by surprise, England wobbles dangerously on the balcony and France grabs his shoulder to steady him. He then resigns on the balcony, standing alongside the Frenchman.

"You of course," England replies. "That way you can rot away in grief all alone as you watch everyone around you die."

"How cruel," France drawls, taking a sip of his wine, "But expected of you, _Angleterre_. You have always been ruthless, _oui_?"

"_Oui_," England pours himself a glass of red wine from the balcony table. "And I'll always be that way. Even until the end of the world."

The two clink glasses before downing the alcohol. They fall into a mutual silence before they are distracted by the sounds of chanting from inside the apartment. The two of them then join their friends as they end the year in celebration.

"Three…Two…One!"


End file.
